


A Demon's Promise

by LunaMoth116



Series: A Wider Circle (The Circleverse) [8]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Ambiguous Relationships, Blood Loss, Blood Magic, Crossover, Deal with a Devil, Demon Deals, Demon Summoning, Demon!Moriarty, Mage!Sherlock, Other, Self-Harm, Suggestive Themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-03
Updated: 2014-04-03
Packaged: 2018-01-18 01:07:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1409344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunaMoth116/pseuds/LunaMoth116
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The saying goes, “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.”  Sherlock Holmes, apostate, plans to do just that – with an offer no demon could refuse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Demon's Promise

**Author's Note:**

> **TRIGGER WARNING: This story contains a brief, yet somewhat graphic description of self-harm (cutting), which may be upsetting to some readers.**
> 
> _We're taking a little break from the angst for the next few installments. However, just because there's no angst, that doesn't mean our boys are out of the woods yet (in more than one sense). Oh no, in some ways their troubles are only just beginning, especially for Sherlock... Because what's scarier – an evil person who hates you, or an evil person who loves you?_
> 
> **Disclaimer:** _I don't own anything you see here, and frankly I'm especially glad I don't own Moriarty. (shudders) If only I could say the same for Sherlock... Interpret that as you will._

“ _Pride is powerful, and intelligent._ _Think on that for a moment, my friends. Be wary of how prideful you become, lest you find too much in common with such a fiend.”_

_~ Transcript of a lecture given by Vheren, templar-commander of Tantervale, 6:86 Steel_

 

Sherlock Holmes stood alone in the small clearing. The trees that ringed the area rustled in the night's breeze, their bending shadows fading in and out in the light of the waning moon, which beamed intermittently as thick, grey clouds passed in front of it. A quick wave of his hand ensured the wards and spells surrounding the trees were still active; if anyone came within ten feet of the clearing, he'd have sufficient warning. He looked down at the chalk symbols and signs drawn in a wide pentagram around his feet, starkly white against the black soil.

Sherlock reached behind his head to touch his new staff, nestled comfortably on his back, and savored the tingle of the boost to his spellpower. He'd begun planning his theft – that is, his acquisition – of it almost simultaneously with his escape plan. Originally he had considered trying for the fabled Staff of the Magister Lord, but ultimately decided the risk wasn't worth it. Of the many valuable staves the quartermaster had for sale, that was the one most likely to be noticed missing. They would send templars out for that alone. (Naturally, he later learned that the late Arya Surana had purchased the staff herself on a return visit to the Tower following his escape.) Instead, he had nicked a simpler, yet comparably valuable and powerful staff called Heaven's Wrath. It was made of solid silverite, and came to just a few inches short of his height – the perfect length for slinging on his back and walking long distances. He pulled it off and took a moment to admire the staff's most distinguished feature: a map of the entire night sky etched in lyrium through its length. No matter where he ended up, he'd always have the stars within reach.

That and his beloved Ring of Study were the only material things he'd taken from all his years at the Tower. The rest had been knowledge, stored securely within what he'd come to refer to as his “mind palace”, to be accessed as needed. Quite a bit of it had not been obtained in lessons – such as the magic he was about to perform. Thankfully the rather slow-witted Jowan had not returned the books he'd stolen from Irving's office, or done a particularly good job of concealing them prior to his escape. (What had Surana seen in him, anyway? She had proved far too wise for the likes of him. Not wise enough for Sherlock, certainly, but by the standards of ordinary people, at least.)

Sherlock replaced his staff, frustrated with himself for his hesitation. He'd drawn the symbols, read over the incantation and instructions one last time, then stepped into the center and...had not been able to take the final step. He wasn't sure how long he'd been standing out here, but it had been long enough. This was what he'd escaped for, what he'd planned for months to do. Why was he faltering _now?_

He knew the answer, of course. For once, though, he was not in a hurry to admit it to anyone, least of all himself.

Oh, if only John were here – solid, sturdy, dependable John, the rock in the river. He would calm Sherlock's mind just by virtue of his presence, and somehow know just how to reassure Sherlock he would not, could not be possessed, with a word or touch or glance or –

But John wasn't here. John was very far away at the moment, probably not even aware he still lived, and though Sherlock was a little ashamed to admit it, tonight he was grateful for that.

Even Molly's presence would have been helpful, in its own way. But she wasn't here, either. No; as with every development of his powers from the moment they had manifested, he would be alone.

He wasn't quite sure why his customary indifference to that fact didn't come so easily tonight.

He shook his head. If he waited much longer, the sun would rise and it would be time to get moving. The time was now.

He pulled the dagger from its sheath in his belt, watched the blade gleam in the moonlight. A small, simple weapon, but sharp enough for his needs. Briefly, he considered numbing his arm with ice, but decided against it. If he was going to be doing this regularly, he needed to accept the pain.

Besides, compared to the dull ache that had settled in his chest ever since he had left the Tower – and John – this would surely be less painful.

He rolled up the left sleeve of his robe, tucked it firmly in place. Taking one last deep breath, he gripped the dagger firmly and put the blade to his arm.

The first cuts were shallow, superficial. Just practice, just enough for red beaded lines to form on his pale flesh, which was still without much color after months of living and walking outdoors. A light breeze made the blood run, and he stared as the beads pooled into rivulets, running in trembling lines down his arm. He was shivering, and he didn't know whether it was from the pain or the cold. Removing the blade, he moved his arm to allow the blood to drip onto the symbols. Red splashed silently onto white.

As he cut, as he scattered, he forced himself to keep a clear head and began to chant. He pulled the incantation through the fog that was beginning to shroud his mind as the clouds did the moon overhead. Each syllable curled off his tongue as easily as flames from a forge.

The symbols began to glow. He ceased his chanting, waited to see what else would happen. Nothing.

More. He needed more.

He held the dagger to fresh, unblemished skin. Setting his jaw, gritting his teeth, he pressed deeper.

The cold steel bore hot blood. He could not stop the small gasp that escaped his lips.

The liquid trailing along his arm was thick and red; the smell had a distinct iron quality. He forced himself to pull the blade away, then swung his arm wide, dispersing the blood across every inch of the circle. As his chanting resumed, he watched in fascination as the crimson drops hovered in the air for just an instant before plummeting to the ground.

Despite his growing dizziness, the pain was strangely clarifying. His ever-racing thoughts finally slowed, halted in agony, till the only one remaining was the incantation he'd memorized over hours of study, which continued to pour from his lips as freely as the blood from his arm.

He looked at his palm, eyes fixed on the red beginning to dry and crust in the pattern of lines and mounts, and as a last few droplets ran down his fourth finger, he would have sworn he saw the lyrium infusions in his ring flare ever so slightly.

This fluid was his essence, the force that carried his life, kept his heart beating. This was what had kept him prisoner for more than thirty years, and what John would use to find him...someday.

From half of one life, half of another.

He wondered if that would be enough.

The ritual had turned out to be a bit more complex than he had anticipated. Summoning a demon was simple enough; summoning a specific demon was trickier. The nature of the Fade meant the demon one wanted could be half a world away from one's physical location, or practically looking over one's shoulder.

No matter. He would bleed himself dry if that it was what it took, just for the chance to have this conversation.

The last few words of the incantation came in a whisper. His head dropped; the hand clutching the blade fell to his side as he doubled over. He closed his eyes, fought the encroaching darkness, shut out the whispers that crawled like ants through his mind.

“ _You called?_ ”

The voice sounded like cold water hitting a hot frying pan, echoing in a deep cavern. Sherlock's eyes snapped open. Though his blood still flowed, he would have thought it froze on hearing that voice. He drew himself erect, then wiped and sheathed his dagger.

Black smoke was rising from where the blood had struck the symbols. The pentagram's glow intensified as the smoke swelled, coalescing into a whirlwind funnel in front of Sherlock. He turned aside to cough, blinded momentarily by a bright flash; when he looked back, the glow had faded, and the fog was dissipating to reveal a hunchbacked creature rising from below; neither man nor beast, but seemingly made of living smoke and shadows, clad in a makeshift covering of leather straps and cloth bound to its skin as tightly as moss to tree bark, with clawed and uneven fingers wide and ready to grasp. From the waist below it remained cloaked in grey mist. One sharp, luminous eye with no pupil or iris fixed its stare on Sherlock, cold and unblinking beneath a brown leather hood.

“I did,” Sherlock answered wearily. He pulled a health poultice from his belt, slathered some of it on his arm and gulped the rest down. His head cleared a little.

_It's only the first time,_ he thought.

The shade tilted its head. “ _The first time is always the hardest. So they say. 'They' say a good deal, do they not?_ ”

Sherlock ignored the cold, slimy feeling twisting his gut and looked the shade in the eye. As he did, he felt the delirium beginning to creep into his head again, though it wasn't quite the same as when he had bled. Rather, instead of elucidating, this faintness brought confusion. Where was he? Why had he summoned this demon? What was his aim?

He forced himself to maintain contact with the single, stark eye, fighting to maintain his concentration. The shade's demeanor, though it had no features for expression, seemed faintly amused.

“ _How lovely to see you again._ ”

“Hello, Moriarty,” Sherlock said evenly.

The shade's steady, unyielding gaze bore into him. “ _You know me as Mouse_.”

“Your name is Moriarty.” Sherlock pressed his lips together. “At least, that is what you told me to call you.”

“ _And you remembered!_ ” Moriarty clasped its hands in an approximation of delight. “ _How kind_.”

Sherlock shrugged. “What I do not remember,” he said, allowing himself a slight smirk, “is you looking like _that_.”

To his surprise, Moriarty reared, drawing itself to full height, raising its hands, voice rising in a near roar. “Do not mock me, mage! You do not know the power even this pathetic vessel holds!”

Sherlock remained stone-faced, not even blinking in the glare of Moriarty's single eye. Just as suddenly as its temper had flared, Moriarty seemed to calm down. It lowered itself to just below Sherlock's full height, spread its hands as if in resignation. Even the eye dimmed slightly. “ _Without a host, this is the only way I can appear in your world: a mere shadow, feeding off the energies and psyches of the living. You know that._ ” Its tone was even, but tinged with bitterness. “ _The least you could have done was give me a host. Alive or dead, I'm not picky._ ”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied. “Because my first order of business is to enable you to walk around freely.”

“ _So snarky! Now don't be like that. Is that any way to treat someone who's been with you all your life?_ ”

Sherlock did not answer.

“ _You know I'm here when you need me. I've always been here for you. More than anyone else in your life. And I know who you're thinking of, and I ask you: where is he now?_ ”

_Nowhere_ you _can get to him_ , Sherlock thought as his heart pounded. Could Moriarty hear it?

Moriarty drifted towards him, traversing the pentagram on tendrils of fog, slowly closing the space between them. It raised its height to meet Sherlock's.

There was no mouth from which his next words issued.

“ _Well, if it's_ me _you want, you can just have me._ ” Moriarty lifted a wisp of smoke to curl just under Sherlock's chin. “ _Or is it the other way around?_ ”

Sherlock smirked. “There is nothing I want that you could provide.”

Was – was his mana receding? Or was it being suppressed? Even the lyrium woven into his clothing was providing only a faint boost, and the famed regeneration of Heaven's Wrath was mere sand in a sieve. He struggled to maintain the connection in the face of intense power.

Moriarty cocked its head. “ _Don't tell me you summoned me just for a pleasant chat. We could have had that in your head. While you slept, even._ ”

“You're not listening,” Sherlock shot back. “I said there is nothing I _want_ from you. There is, however, something I _need_ from you.”

“ _Oh? You have my attention now, mage. And that would be?_ ”

Pale eyes locked onto dark. “I need you to teach me blood magic.”

Moriarty glanced around at the dark splotches on the soil. “ _Seems you've got a head start_.”

Sherlock scoffed. “What I have are useless tomes, limited by the daring and capacity of their authors. Fortunately, what _you_ have is experience, beyond anything their weak minds could have imagined or understood. I am sure I would not be your first student.”

“ _You are correct_.” Moriarty brushed a finger just along Sherlock's lacerated arm; Sherlock held back a wince as the smoke stung the still-tender gashes. He could not show fear, or anything that might be construed as such. Not now. “ _Though it has been quite a long time since I last...taught_.”

The mage was fixed to where he stood, though whether from fear or determination, even he could not say.

“I have an offer to make,” he said.

A dark, unsettling sound boomed from the shade; Sherlock realized it was laughter. “ _And here I thought you were expecting me to teach you for free! Oh, no one should underestimate you, Sherlock._ ”

_Nor you, demon_. “All knowledge has its price,” Sherlock said shortly. “Shall I take that as a sign of your interest, then?”

Moriarty lifted its face to Sherlock's. “ _I'm listening_. _But first, a question, if you will indulge me.”_

Oh, he was tired. So very, very tired. “Make it quick.”

“ _You could simply kill me, claim my power. It would not be difficult; I have only a fraction of the ability in your world that I do in my own. Why make a deal?_ ”

“The same reason you released me from my Harrowing sixteen years ago,” Sherlock answered. “You are of much more use to me alive.”

“ _Oh? Most interesting._ ” Moriarty rubbed its hands together. “ _What else do we share, I wonder?_ ”

What, indeed. “You should be asking what else _might_ we share.”

Moriarty drew back as if to take another look at him; as it did, Sherlock felt his knees beginning to buckle, though not from nervousness. “ _That is your deal?_ ”

Sherlock steadied himself. “That is the crux of my deal. For your part, you will teach me what you know.”

“ _And what do I get in return?_ ”

“Your continued existence,” Sherlock said coolly.

“ _Please, go on. It's most fascinating._ ” Moriarty's tone was somewhere between encouraging and mocking.

“Ten years from now, to the day, I will let you in.”

There was no sound in the clearing for a few moments; even the trees were still.

“ _Alive or dead?_ ” Moriarty demanded.

“Alive.” Sherlock's answer was firm, decisive.

Moriarty tipped its head. “ _You intrigue me, mage. Though I would not have refused your corpse. Only fresh, of course. Maggots are such unpleasant, disgusting little things._ ”

Then a fit of booming, rasping laughter, like lightning setting a forest ablaze, resonated in the small space. It continued for a few minutes until Sherlock cleared his throat.

“I fail to see what's so amusing,” he said flatly.

Moriarty eventually settled down, regained its composure. “ _That's your offer? That's all you have to offer me? Yourself? In so little time? And here I thought you might actually surprise me!_ ”

The demon then pulled away from Sherlock and began to pace the pentagram, skirting the perimeter, always keeping its eye locked on the mage in the center. Sherlock's impatience – or was it trepidation? – was growing as quickly as his strength was waning. But he said nothing. Moriarty had waited sixteen years to speak. Not allowing it to would not convince it to accept Sherlock's deal.

“ _Oh, how I've_ longed _for a host. The weaker of my kind who are not so patient or persistent resign themselves to_ this _form, wandering your world as mere whispers, feeding and draining and attacking like the poor mindless creatures they doom themselves to be. But not me. I don't like to get my hands dirty, you see. I deserve so much more. I want a life, not an existence. I don't want a doing, I want a_ being.”

Sherlock felt a chill creep down his spine and a moist curl of mist graze his neck; Moriarty was behind him now, pressing just up against his back, his staff indenting his robes. “ _Just as you do, do you not? You've spent your whole life trapped in that stuffy old tower. Like a princess from the old tales, waiting for her knight. And, defying all your expectations, he found you – or did you find him? But he couldn't free you, could he? You freed yourself, for little more than a life of aimless wandering and hiding. And so you're really no better off than before._ ”

Moriarty moved whisper-close; if it had had lips or breath, Sherlock would have felt them brush his ear. “ _And that's why you need me, isn't it? You need me – or you're nothing._ ”

_Just as I need you_ was left unsaid, as the demon moved around to face him again. Sherlock remained tight-lipped, exercising every ounce of the will his instructors and even his mother had always claimed he had. He lifted his right hand to his injured arm, drew on his ebbing mana. The blood had clotted and dried, sealed by the poultice, but the wounds still gaped, smarting in the cool night air. If he could just heal one or two of the cuts, perhaps...

Moriarty extended a single clawed finger. Sherlock started as his mana was momentarily blocked and the glow vanished from his fingers.

“ _I wouldn't do that if I were you_ ,” the demon said casually. “ _Should your vessel grow too accustomed to magical healing, its natural healing processes will not be nearly as effective_.”

Sherlock stared at Moriarty. Well, there went one backup plan. Thankfully, there were others.

“Do we have a deal?” was all he said.

“ _We might_.” Moriarty folded its hands, tilted its head. “ _If you will permit me one more question_.”

“Ask,” Sherlock said curtly.

“ _What happens if your knight comes for you after all?_ ”

Sherlock paused only a moment before answering. “He will have to accept our arrangement.” John would come for him, he was sure of that. To have John at his side again would be...wonderful. Ideal, even. But if he had to choose between having Moriarty under control – in whatever capacity – and never seeing John again, he knew what his decision would be. He'd already made the same choice in his escape. John would understand. He had to. There was only one way a deal with a demon could end. Sherlock knew – or at least believed – what he would gain would be worth that outcome.

“And now I will ask _you_ a question.” At Moriarty's nod, he went on, “I assume the possibility of my taking another option when the time comes has already occurred to you?”

It was Moriarty's turn to scoff. “ _Speak more plainly, why don't you? But of course it has! And I already know it won't happen. You won't kill yourself. You have too much pride for that_. _You, take the great Sherlock Holmes out of the world? You would never permit that. What would the world be like without_ you _in it? Can you even imagine that?_ ”

“That,” Sherlock replied, trying to keep his voice steady, “is precisely how a demon thinks.”

There was silence for a long moment.

Then, Moriarty's ominous laughter echoed through the clearing again. “ _Oh, I like you, Sherlock! I like you very much, indeed. You grasp how it is. You_ do _understand my kind. I have not met a mage of your audacity in more than a century. Very well. We have a deal._ ”

Moriarty extended one gnarled, leathery hand. Sherlock did not hesitate before shaking it. The whispers returned, asking and calling and pleading, but Sherlock pushed them away. He would never listen to them. He would never join their kind.

He moved to take his hand away from Moriarty. Moriarty's clasp was firm, and tightened further as Sherlock tried to let go. Instead, the demon reached for Sherlock's other hand, clenching the two between its own in an iron grip. Sherlock's eyes widened – not in surprise or pain, but understanding – and closed for an instant while a soft sigh, almost a moan, issued from his lips, his mana surged, and the first murmurs of new power began to sing in his blood.

When his eyes opened again, Moriarty's single eye met them. Its tone, though menacing and hungry, was leavened with just a touch of gaiety.

“ _Now,_ _shall we begin?_ ”

**Author's Note:**

>  _Thank you so much for reading! Hope you enjoyed. :)_  
>  _Well, I slipped an_ Into Darkness _reference in there, so I've achieved all I really wanted from this series. ;) And before you go running to the Wiki – yes,[Heaven's Wrath](http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/Heaven's_Wrath) is a canon stave, and it does exactly what Sherlock feels it do. Until now, I have to admit I never took the time to actually read the flavor text for most of the weapons and whatnot. I've enjoyed making up for it since then; it's like falling in love with the game all over again. :) One of the things I absolutely adore about this continuum is the sheer number of interesting tools, choices, and possibilities it holds. Btw, Sherlock's opinions regarding Jowan do not reflect my own. ;)_  
>  _Also, this story may be revised slightly once_ Inquisition _comes out. If so, I'll make a note of the changes. (Hurray for ambiguous timelines! :P Incidentally, David Gaider has said at least one new type of major demon will be introduced in that game. Excited as I am to learn more, pride demons currently being the most powerful was rather fortuitous. ^_^ Though I must say it will be damn funny if it turns out there's one a rank or so higher...)_  
>  _And I just want to add: Some of this was planned. Quite a bit of it wasn't. I'll let you try to make the distinction. This is what happens when you let the characters take over._  
>  _Many thanks, as always, to all my readers, with special thanks to those who take the time to do a little something extra, including OtakuElf, swiftlyfalling, azure_rosa, and all guests (including those who read my older, earlier work – glad you enjoyed it!). Also, thank you to Zoev from the Dragon Age Wiki, who reminded me that there is a cutscene of a demon summoning in_ Warden's Keep _– I had totally forgotten about that!_  
> 


End file.
